


predator, not prey

by vanibella



Category: Free!, Free! Eternal Summer - Fandom, Free! Iwatobi Swim Club - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanibella/pseuds/vanibella
Summary: It’s not really a masquerade until you’ve teased, tempted, and driven your partner to have all masks off before the night’s even finished.





	predator, not prey

**Author's Note:**

> Written with “The Arcana” game (Chapter 14 - Temperance, to be specific) in mind. Listen to Camille Saint-Saën’s “Danse Macabre” for a full, immersive experience. This was for a “courtesan/hooker” prompt, but I might have tweaked the thing quite a bit. Gender neutral reader.

Guided by the lilting tunes of the orchestra’s playing, the doors of the ballroom open with a flourish, and eager guests are quickly ushered down the hall from the stately red and gold ballroom towards a night of greater revelry and merrymaking.

Welcome ceremonies finished, the orchestra starts up yet another lively piece, prompting several couples to take to the dancefloor yet again. And if anyone were to say that tonight’s dances edged on the provocative and slightly seductive, then they were right to suspect that the masquerade was nothing more than a metaphor for a passionate tryst.

Your own self was sorely tempted to steal away to a dark room, to follow suit other couples who had already chanced upon isolated balconies, or who were cozying up to one another in the labyrinth, or those who had mysteriously disappeared in the garden’s various gazebos.

Promised a night of pleasure, there was little provoking needed in the teasing nature of a dance, the privacy of a dark room, and the wondrous spectacles of the impossible to arouse the imaginations of the masquerade’s partygoers.

Your companion for the night has other plans, however. The warmth of his arm curled around you is not lost between the swathes of material and underpinning of your costume.

 _Not yet_ , is what he seems to be saying when he squeezes your waist.

You look up at him, your eyes boring into the teal pools that blink lazily from behind a large painted mask. Outfitted with the colors of dark gray and black, streaked with the trademark teal of his irises, his costume is reminiscent of a wolf. The sharp ears and snout on his mask only help to further accentuate his chiseled features.

And you are his prey. A meal dressed in white and gold, sheer gauzy material encases your limbs and caresses your body. The silk of your mask is white, with golden tassels that tickle your collarbones with every tilt of your head. A bright blue ribbon is tied around your neck.

A sheep to the slaughter.

Offering an arm to you, you slip a gloved hand into the crook of your partner’s elbow, allowing him to lead you towards the great dining hall.

The bright chandeliers create a blinding haze in the mirrors of the dining room, and you’re more than a little stunned as you and your date take a table for two on the farther side of the room.

You ignore the subtle but blatant brush of his hand against your behind as he helps you into your seat, returning to the other side of the table opposite your setting to take his own seat.

The night only continues to heat up from there.

The first course is particularly trying. It’s hard to concentrate eating, much less enjoy the meal when he’s gazing at you so intently. You pick delicately at the plate in front of you, poking the sweet squash torte with a fork in a failed attempt to distract yourself.

By the time dessert arrives, you’re pretty sure that your date has been messing with you. He’s eaten slower than usual, his expressions exaggerated even with the dark mask over his eyes – the way he had boldly licked the pad of his thumb for example, was strangely obscene.

A plate of pears in a sauce of red wine and spices is placed in front of you, and knowing your date’s affinity for the fruit, you take advantage of the situation and put your best foot forward.

Toeing off your shoe, you extend a leg to nudge a foot against his ankle. When he doesn’t react, you decide to take it a little further by inching your leg higher to rub against his calf. A smirk pulls at the side of his mouth.

You oblige, foot sliding up to his knee. Your victory is short-lived when his unoccupied hand swiftly jerks down to grab your ankle from under the tablecloth, effectively holding you there.

You hide your shock by downing the remaining wine in your glass. His grip is unrelenting, and no matter how much your tight ensemble will allow you to squirm and shift as you please, there’s no mistaking the firmness of his grasp.

Or the fire in his eyes.

His hand more than once traverses the distance between your calf and knee, inching towards the skin of your inner thigh. Heated stares are exchanged over the rims of golden cups and half-full wineglasses.

You can only imagine how this night is going to end.

The orchestra in the background then ends with an impressive trill, and your date releases your ankle.

He immediately rises from the table and pulls you to your feet, escorting you out of the dining hall towards a large set of double doors at the far end of the hall. You both push past the carved wood, but before a word can even escape your mouth, he swiftly pins you to the door and rips off your mask.

“Give up, _Sousuke_?”

A smirk graces your lips.

And just like that, a warm mouth is sucking hickies into your exposed collarbones, hands pushing past the frothy silk to grope at you from under your outfit, the hardness of his own arousal pressed against your front.

“We’ll see.”


End file.
